Diversions
by A Sweet Catastrophe
Summary: In the days following the news of Britain going to war with Germany, Lady Sybil seeks a distraction and Branson reluctantly assists.
1. The Garage

_Author's Note: I'll just write a little story about Tom and Sybil based on that little outing I mentioned in my last DA fic, I thought. It won't take long, I thought. It will probably be a one-shot, I thought. Many months later I see the folly in my thinking._

_Way too much research went into this fic which I will point out with each chapter. In this one information on British and communist ideas comes from vengefulnoob, professional British communist. All the Irish WWI information comes from Kilmainhaim Gaol and an exhibit on the Irish in WWI that was at the National Library in Dublin last December. Enjoy!_

Diversions

It had been three days.

Three days since he had answered the call that would change the life of his coworker.

Three days since that news had permitted him to talk to her in a personal manner in front of everyone in attendance at the Crawley's garden party.

Three days since he had held her hand in solidarity and joy.

And three days since Mrs. Hughes, ever the observant mother figure, had seen the action and warned him that his affections would lead to his ruin.

And while he tried to live in the memory of these things, it had also been three days since that garden party celebration had ceased to the low reverence of a funeral when Lord Grantham had the dubious honor of announcing that Britain was at war with Germany.

He tried, but nothing and no one would let him escape to those more pleasant moments; especially not his daily paper that he used to distract and inform himself with in between jobs.

Every page was another rephrasing of the same story, another editorial on the tension in Europe, another political cartoon showing an aggressive Germany intimidating and abusing Britain's allies, and another loud plea for all able men to enlist. He skimmed the pages for anything that could offer him more than what he has already read over the past few days and found nothing but new words on the same topics, always dripping with patriotism and fervor.

In theory, he understood why the war was happening, there were real issues hidden beneath the spiraling effect of every country in Europe frantically picking sides and declaring war out of camaraderie, but he truthfully felt detached from it. He was living in England but England was neither his home nor his master. He knew he would feel the effects, shortages of goods, propaganda on every corner, coworkers volunteering to fight or assist as Thomas was already planning on doing, but he would not experience the same pain or pressure to participate. If anything it was more important now than ever that Ireland became independent but what really was the right course in order to achieve that now . . .

His thought ceased when he heard the door of the garage that he had left ajar creak, causing him to brusquely look up from his paper. Even with the bright sun in his eyes pouring in from outside, he could still make out the silhouetted figure perched between the doors and he felt a slow smile tug at his lips for a second before the most likely reason that she had come to the garage occurred to him. He stood up from his relaxed position of leaning against the Renault and folded up his paper carefully, placing it on the table across from him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't get the message that you would need a ride today," he told her, grabbing his green livery jacket off the hood and quickly shrugging it on.

Lady Sybil took a few careful steps into the garage which allowed him to get a better look at her, the sunlight streaming in through the doors framing her dark hair like a halo. He noticed that she wasn't wearing a hat and seemed to be dressed casually in just a skirt and short-sleeved blouse, an unlikely choice for a woman who needed to go into town. She raised her hand to stop him.

"Oh, no. I don't need a ride, Branson," she said calmly, lowering her hand after a moment to cross her arms over her stomach.

At her gesture, he stopped smoothing out his uniform and left the front unbuttoned. He had been so worried that he had missed an assignment that it didn't occur to him until now how unusual her presence there was. She had never come into the garage before. None of the family had. He always got the instructions for when and where they would need to go and at that time he would pull up in front of the house. If Lady Sybil needed a ride, coming into the garage to ask him directly surely would make Mr. Carson's head spin at how unorthodox it was.

No, she was here for something else. And judging by the way her arms were pulled tightly in front of her like a shield and how her eyes had now retreated to the floor as if she was ashamed or nervous, it wasn't anything good.

"Is there something wrong, milady?" he asked gently. They were fairly accustomed to talking about their lives with each other but never outside of the context of a ride or a rally. Yes, he had seen her gloomy on the odd occasion but she was never so stricken that she seemed . . . lost. In another world, he would have taken her by the hand and asked her to unload her burden but alas, even as close as they were, it would be improper to do so. He was restricted to merely maintaining a respectful distance and accepting that if she wanted to talk, she would have to decide to without any encouragement from him.

She looked up at him, blue eyes watery as if she may have been crying earlier, and let out a breath as one does before pulling a trigger.

"Are you busy?" she asked, her brows furrowed in worry that she had interrupted him.

"No, no," he insisted fervently, the concern evident in his tone.

"Do you mind . . ." she started urgently, cutting off her sentence quickly when she realized how desperate she sounded. "Do you mind talking with me for a little while?" she finished embarrassed, glancing down at the floor again like she was afraid of his response.

"Of course not, milady," he answered, his slight smile returning at the thought that she had chosen him of all people to come to. "Would you like to sit-?" he stopped as he noticed her eyeing the various corners of the garage in confusion at what he was offering. There wasn't really anywhere to sit, no proper chair for her at least. He was perfectly comfortable leaning on the workbench or sitting on the running board of the car but those weren't really suitable options.

Quickly forming an idea, he took a few steps back and opened up the backseat door of the car and motioned with his other hand for her to enter. She grinned briefly at his solution and allowed him to help her into the car with a soft "thank you" on her lips. He could not guess how many times they had performed this ritual before, her hand in his as he supported her ascent into the back, but the second she reached for him he took note of her ungloved hand and his similarly bare one reaching towards her. A shiver went through him as he tried to hold onto the brief memory of her soft skin again his more work-worn fingers, her warmth, the briefest sense of her pulse, and the fact that such a strong woman could have hands that felt so small and delicate against his.

The cover around the car had been taken down for the summer so the entire back was open but she still sat down nearest to the open door, so they were facing each other as closely as they could with him still standing outside of the vehicle. Her amusement had faded and she looked down at her hands as if she was trying to search for her words. He thought about telling her to take her time but decided it was better to just wait until she was ready.

"I just," she started, stopping to let out a slow sigh. "I just have a lot on my mind and there isn't really anyone I can share it with. I can't stop thinking about. . ."

She paused and raised her head as if waiting for him to continue her thought for her and he nodded in understanding. It was no great mystery what she was getting at. There was one topic that he knew she could only seriously discuss with him: politics. And, as circumstance would have it, one of the biggest political events imaginable had happened three days ago and there hadn't been an opportunity for them to see each other by chance over those days. From the time war had been declared, his services had been commandeered exclusively by Lord Grantham as he made frequent trips into the village or to Ripon for reasons he didn't fully know but could gather that they were war-related. Lord Grantham was reluctant to talk freely about his business or even the topic in general in too much detail and it made him wonder if any of the other members of the Crawley family had contrary opinions they would willingly share.

And by the other Crawleys, he meant Lady Sybil.

The fact that she had sought him out to have this conversation left him hopeful that the friendship that had grown between them really was as important to her as it was to him.

"Me neither," he agreed solemnly.

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to think about it honestly," she admitted with a touch of exasperation. "I've been reading every word in the papers for the last few weeks and I still feel like I don't know how it came to this."

"I understand," he said, reflecting on his own thoughts right before she had arrived.

"I thought that the world was moving forward, towards something better. This feels like a roadblock. I mean, maybe this could finally put an end to all the tension throughout Europe but . . ."

"What if it doesn't? What if this creates more problems and stalls more progress?" he finished. He had been there. The last few days he had played with the same thoughts as she had and had similarly failed to come up with anything definitive.

"Yes," she concurred emphatically. "And on a smaller scale, I keep thinking about who will be going."

He had to admit that this was more of a passing thought to him than the political aspects. He wondered if his countrymen would be conscripted, the Ulster Volunteers were surely already enlisting to fight for king and someone else's country, but he knew no one who he loved would decide to fight willingly. Or, at least he hoped not. It had only been three days since war was declared and he had yet to hear any news from across the sea about how Irish nationalists stood on the topic of going to war. While it seemed unlikely to him that fighting for the kingdom was an effective step on the path to home rule, he knew not to underestimate the desperation of poverty and the steady paycheck a soldier could bring.

She, on the other hand, would probably need to watch many men who she knows give their lives to the cause.

"Thomas has already enlisted with the medical corps," he said. Without anything personal to contribute, he offered up the closest thing he could, unaware if she had gotten the message herself.

"I heard," she answered, with a tilt of her head. After a brief moment of silence she started speaking again, this time with a quiver of nerves in her tone. "I don't imagine you'd. . ."

He couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of the question she was about to ask.

"No, of course not," she finished with a pleased expression of what looked to him to be relief.

"It's not my war," he stated blithely, knowing that she had probably already made that connection. The topic of Irish independence came up in conversations between them about as frequently as women's rights.

She nodded in agreement with a faint smile of satisfaction.

"But you must have some opinion?" she inquired, clearly wondering if he might be able to offer some thoughts on the war that would help her to better formulate and articulate her own tentative opinion.

He crossed his arms and gave a noncommittal shrug, before offering up the only thing he felt sure of with all the English papers he had read and contradictory arguments: "It's the rich sending the poor to die for their ambitions."

Her eyes fell to her lap again as she contemplated this statement for a minute and a comfortable silence fell between them as they lost themselves in different thoughts on the same subject.

"I can't talk like this with my family," she admitted after a while, her volume low as if she was afraid someone other than him might overhear her. "I usually handle any troubles I have fine on my own but it can be quite lonely here when you really need someone to talk to."

Although his ego told him that he should not take pity on a girl as privileged as Lady Sybil, he found his heart breaking for her. He knew she was different than her family, it was part of what he loved about her, but he had never thought too much about how being a free spirit, even with all the resources at her disposal, could actually lead to loneliness, even for someone as independent as her.

"Even if I thought I could discuss these things, everyone has their own burdens to bear right now. My mother and father are still recovering from the loss of my would-be baby brother. Mary is trying to be strong but it's only been three days since Matthew retracted his proposal and I know she's not doing well. And I don't know exactly what happened to Edith but she's changed too. You would think she was the one who had her heart broken that day. I wish I could do something to help them but everyone keeps their problems so hidden that you can't even bring it up to offer them someone to talk to."

She chuckled gently on reflection of what she had just said about herself. "I guess it runs in the family."

"Well, you have Gwen," he offered weakly, knowing that it wasn't the best offering with Gwen's current situation but wanting to try to prove to her that she has more at Downton than just occasional chats with him.

"I'm so happy for her! I really am," she exclaimed with a bright, beautiful smile that nearly made him lose his footing. The smile, however, was short-lived as her face gradually fell to a look of shame.

"I don't mean to sound selfish but helping her, it gave me a purpose, something to occupy my time with and someone to talk to while working towards a common goal. And we succeeded."

She shook her head at her words straight away, looking disgusted in herself. "No. _She_ succeeded . . . And now what do I do?"

He wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical but he wanted to give her something to ease her mind. He wanted to tell her that of course she wasn't being selfish. He wanted to tell her that he really admired how much she committed herself to helping Gwen find a job because it showed just how important her cause really is to her on a small scale as well as a large one. He wanted to tell her that she's actually one of the most kind-hearted and giving people he knows.

But instead he answered her question.

"You could join a women's club," he proposed. He knew she dabbled in many charitable organizations and had often thought about specifically devoting more time to campaigning for equal rights.

She perked up, clearly interested in the idea and gave a small nod.

"I'm sure I couldn't ask mama to recommend one," she joked, causing him to smile with her.

"Do you think you could help me with that?" she asked a bit more seriously as their amusement died down even if their joy didn't fade.

"Of course," he said gladly, already having plenty of resources in his cottage under the contingency that she might want them. When she had first mentioned the idea, he had gone on the hunt for information just in case she needed it.

They shared a smile for a time before the dark cloud that was tainting everyone's moods slowly passed over both their minds and they found themselves at fault for experiencing such a simple burst of happiness.

"Branson?" she said, her solemn tone having returned.

"Yes, milady?"

"When you need to get your mind off things, what do you do?" she asked hopefully.

It seemed as if she was looking for some kind of suggestion or possibly some sort of reassurance that now that she felt as if there was nothing to do but think about the unpleasant state of the world, for many others there were practical things to attend to.

"What you'd expect I imagine. When I don't have driving to do I read, work on the cars, write letters home," he answered, apologetic that he couldn't offer something more intriguing.

"But what do you do when you have time off?" she clarified, clearly thinking that would produce a different set of tasks.

"I don't have much of it I'm afraid," he admitted, leaning against the side of the car as he ran through his mental calendar of the last few months. "Aside from what I told you, if I need to buy something I might go into town. Maybe I'd go to church if there was something I felt really needed praying for."

"Is that really all?" she pleaded still looking expectant of some sort of comment she could latch onto.

He wasn't sure what kind of answer she was trying to pull out of him but it apparently didn't have anything to do with him running out of stationary or worrying about his father's health. A life in service was only glamorous by association and that association rested with her.

While he didn't have anything he could offer in the way of class, it wasn't too long ago that he was her age and was better acquainted with fun.

"When I worked in Ireland sometimes I would go to the pub," he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders at the last response he could think of. "I got to know some of the people in town and we'd chat, have a drink, maybe listen to music if there was anyone making it."

Lady Sybil's face lit up at his answer, her eyes shining in curiosity and a grin returning to her face.

"Would you dance?" she asked, leaning in towards him as if they were sharing a secret.

He caught her infectious smile and leaned in as well, lowering his voice furtively.

"If the mood happened to strike me."

"I would like to see that!" she exclaimed laughing until it faded to a sigh. "It's too bad there probably won't be a Servant's Ball next year with the way things are," she said, sounding truly upset.

"'Tis, milady," he settled quietly, surprised by how sorrowful she sounded. He searched her eyes for any more meaning than she was freely providing. He would have thought it would be such a minor thing for her to have to give up and he wondered, hoped really, that she would miss it for the same reasons he would.

Branson hadn't attended his first Servant's Ball earlier that year due to a virulent sickness. While everyone was preparing the day before he had felt the flutter of disease and had dedicated himself to drinking as much water as he could and not exerting himself but his efforts had turned out to be in vain when he woke up the next day unable to get out of bed. In between coughing fits he would tell himself that he needed to push himself upright and put on his best suit but every time he tried he was hit with a dizzy spell and found himself collapsing back into his pillow, visions of his missed opportunity to socialize with Lady Sybil in an environment where their friendship would not be suspect taunting him as he lay immobilized. When he had finally given up, he fell asleep to the thought that there was always next year and dreamt of leading her around the ballroom floor.

Except now that wouldn't be.

"I've never been to a pub," she blurted out, glancing away from him, only then instigating his realization that they had been holding each other's stares for longer than was appropriate.

"I wouldn't expect it to be the kind of place his lordship would want you going," he noted.

"No. If I even had a chance of his approval it would involve being escorted by a team who could be trusted to supervise. And even at that I'd imagine he'd want to make sure the pub was only filled with men and women who he deemed suitable."

He smiled at the image of a dingy pub filled with suited lords and ladies in their finest ball gowns, holding pints in their hands as they chatted away about the petty gossip of the nobility.

"Would you like to?" she asked ambiguously, disrupting his vision.

He furrowed his brows, not sure exactly what she was referring to.

"Go," she clarified.

"Aside from the people who live under this roof I'm afraid I don't really know anyone in town to go with. I could go alone, I suppose," he said, his lip curling up a bit in a show of distaste. Going to a pub was really more of a social activity and while he supposed he could meet people there he didn't imagine finding anyone in the village who could really provide much in the way of conversation unless that conversation was about livestock.

"You wouldn't have to," she said nervously, smoothing out her skirt in order to hide her shaky hands.

He raised an eyebrow at her to ask if she was suggesting what he thought she was suggesting and was met with a mildly defiant expression that was trying to hide her uncertainty.

"Milady, that's a daring proposal even by your standards."

"What if I told you I have a foolproof plan?" she insisted determinedly.

"Do you now?" he asked dismissively, still unwilling to entertain the idea. After what had happened at the count, he had become more protective of her but they had still managed to go to speeches that her parents wouldn't approve of. This, however, was in an entirely different category of risk, and while he would never doubt her cleverness, he knew all too well that there were forces beyond their control just waiting to ruin a perfect plan.

"I'm working out the details as we speak," she asserted confidently. "The next time you have an afternoon off, I could sneak out in disguise and we could walk to the village so none of the cars would be missing in case someone was to walk by the garage."

"And if we're caught?" he pointed out. "Need I remind you, milady, that my job was in jeopardy only a few months ago because of one your plans?"

He immediately regretted bringing that incident up as her face fell guiltily and she gave him a look of such remorse and pity that he wanted nothing more than to take it back, his mouth falling open to do so but she spoke first.

"And for that I am still very sorry but I know my faults there. I lied to you and didn't listen to you in a situation where you would know better than I. I have learned from that which is why I am being honest with you now when I say that this will work. Even if we are caught I know exactly what to say. The fault would rest on me alone and your job would be safe."

Her sincerity would be his undoing.

"And I think you and I could both use a distraction."


	2. The Village

_Author's Note: Can't get enough of Tom and Sybil wandering around and talking about stuff? Then oh boy, have you come to the right place!_

_The unnecessary research for this chapter involved a lot of reading and rereading of texts, some of which were borrowed from my philosopher best friend who reads Kant and Nietzsche for fun._

* * *

As he stood waiting behind the garage, he passed the brim of his hat through his hands, spinning it around and around as he glanced in the direction of the Abbey and then in the direction of the village.

No sign of anyone.

With a sigh he put his hat back on his head and anxiously fumbled for his pocket watch. It was 1:35 in the afternoon, five minutes after when she said she would meet him.

It could be nothing. She could have gotten temporarily held up, he thought to himself. Or it could mean she's not coming.

She was so enthusiastic about their little outing and had been so devoted to every step of planning it. If she wasn't coming it seemed unlikely that it would be of her own volition and he was hoping that it wouldn't lead to trouble for her.

They had to wait a few days before he was given an afternoon off but the minute he was informed of it, he wrote a note with no more information than the day and times that he would be free and left it under a rock behind the garage, a clever method of information transport that she had devised so they wouldn't need to involve anyone else as a messenger who would need access to them both. Only a few hours later when he returned to the place he had left the note, he found a small blue envelope in its place and a matching letter containing nothing more than: _At 1:30, I'll meet you right here_.

He would freely admit that she had the most difficult part of the plan to contend with: that of leaving the house for hours without any one finding out that she was missing or asking too many questions. His contribution was merely to find a pub in the village and figure out how to get there. Unfortunately, his knowledge of pubs in Downton village was virtually nonexistent as he had never been in one. Sure, he would pass one whenever he went into town but neither the names nor the atmospheres seemed to attach to his memory. The only pub around that he was familiar with was in Ripon, which he stopped by occasionally on his way back from church, but it would be nonsense to complicate their already precarious plan by adding in miles of travel.

Carson had told him of his afternoon off at breakfast the day before and when everyone had gone about their chores, he had been alone at the table with Anna and Bates and decided to ask them if they knew of any places in the village. Anna had told him about the Grantham Arms which she had described as being the main pub of Downton and a fairly popular lunch destination. Bates had elaborated that he had heard of a pub called The Dog and Duck but didn't know much about it otherwise aside from rumors that it was a bit more downtrodden than Anna's recommendation. For a while he weighed the risk of being caught if they attended the more popular pub versus the desire to take her somewhere that would be nice and would show better judgment on his part. In the end he chose style over caution. To the Grantham Arms they would go.

"Hello!"

Branson jumped slightly at the loud whisper as he turned to look at the side of the garage around which Lady Sybil was poking out her head.

"Oh! I was trying not to startle you. I'm sorry," she said wringing her hands together as she emerged from hiding.

He let out a sigh of relief that she had made it out of the house successfully and smiled to reassure her.

"It's no trouble, milady. I'm just glad you got here," he admitted, eyeing her attire curiously. While he was surely no expert on women's fashion, he could tell from years spent in the vicinity of the upper class that what she was wearing was certainly not hers. The light, grey-hued jacket and skirt combination was of a far coarser and less expensive fabric than her usual attire and fit her too tightly in some places while being too long or loose in others. However, in spite of her dress which was obviously chosen to make her appear to be of a working class stature, her navy blue hat and gloves where ones that he had seen her wear before and were of a much higher quality. The hat and gloves could have easily given up her attempt at a disguise but they actually made her look like a lower class girl who happened to be proud of a few expensive gifts that she thought would make up for her hand-me-down outfit.

Lady Sybil had noticed him taking in her clothing and she tugged down the edge of the jacket self-consciously.

"I borrowed them from Gwen," she explained. "I didn't tell her why I needed them but she was happy to help. I thought wearing something like this would help conceal my identity. There are some advantages to being only the third daughter but you can't be too careful."

"I think that will do well, milady," he noted, with a nod of confirmation. "Shall we start walking?"

"Yes," she agreed and they started off down the hill so that they would not be seen. A slow smile began to form across her face in satisfaction that they had managed to succeed in her plan so far but her grin halted abruptly with a revelation. She looked up at him seriously.

"You can't call me that once we get into town," she said, lifting her long skirt slightly as they started to reach the bottom of the hill.

"Milady?" he clarified.

"It would give me away."

He nodded in agreement, as he thought about how strange it would appear to anyone passing by to hear a man call a woman by such a title when they appeared to be of the same class. It had become so habitual when he was addressing her that he initially thought he could get around it by trying to say it ironically but he didn't think he would be able to maintain that without slipping into an honest appellation that might raise eyebrows. The only other way he ever referred to her was as Lady Sybil and as much as he would have loved to just call her Sybil, he didn't think she would be comfortable with that. He knew she didn't think in terms of class, the fact that she had conceived this outing made it fairly clear that the girl who had, even sarcastically, once told him that she gave the orders was gone, but he knew how hard it could be to overcome what you have been taught to believe. Even if she found it perfectly acceptable, her father and mother's horrified reactions would probably still be lingering in the back of her mind.

"What shall I can you then?" he asked, thinking she should determine what she was most comfortable with.

Lady Sybil contemplated this for a moment and he imagined that she was running through the same ideas he had just explored.

"How about 'Ms. Crawley'?" she offered, clearly thinking it was the most neutral designation, concealing class and relationship to the speaker. "And I will call you 'Mr. Branson.'"

He smiled at this idea, allowing himself to picture a world in which they would have met under different circumstances and used these titles outright.

"That should work just fine, Ms. Crawley," he said shooting her a grin as he tried out the name.

"Thank you, Mr. Branson," she replied, giggling softly behind her gloved hand.

For a brief pause, there was no sound between them but the crunch of the brittle grass under their shoes. The August sun was blaring down, only mercifully concealed every so often by a passing cloud. England's usual dark clouds or rain were nowhere to be found and Tom reflected on how they couldn't have found a nicer day for this outing.

Unfortunately, as things had been going lately, every time someone seemed to find that they were feeling happy or fortunate, they found their minds tending back towards the war, guilty for the small pleasures. The morning paper had been disturbing to say the least and he suddenly couldn't expel it from his mind.

"I read an article in the paper this morning about how Germany. . ."

"Stop, please," she said swiftly, shutting her eyes as if the mere mention had brought her physical pain. "I'm sorry. I just thought we could have a day that would free us of these thoughts, even if it was only for a little while. Can we please talk about any other topic? It can be politics, just not that."

"Of course, mi . . . ss Crawley," he said gently, a little ashamed that he had brought it up in the first place. Her words from a few days ago replayed in his mind: _And I think you and I could both use a distraction_.

And that was what he was going to give her: a good time that they both needed.

"So how did you manage to make it out of the house without anyone questioning you?" he asked with a cheeky grin. "You never revealed that part of your masterful plan."

She smiled and shook her head.

"I think you'd rather not hear about that," she admitted.

"Well, now I must know," he answered, not looking away from her until she felt his eyes on her, looked at him and sighed in resignation, a bit of a smile still on her face.

"I knew I needed to tell them something that would convince them to leave me alone in my room for hours without asking too many questions. Faking an illness was the easiest way to do that but there weren't many ailments I could claim that would keep them from checking on me constantly and wondering if they should call a doctor so . . . I said I was having women's issues," she finally said, blushing red in the face that she had told him.

Unshaken, he nodded, impressed by her reasoning. He was actually more surprised that she had told him than that she had used this technique. He could remember briefly mentioning before that he has sisters and grew up in a house where everyone was open and privacy was nonexistent but he still found it hard to believe that she had divulged the full detail of her plan when it was about such a personal matter.

"That's very clever," he told her, hoping she wasn't too embarrassed. "And it would be easy to say you are feeling better later and able to come down for dinner."

She looked at him with visible relief that she hadn't revolted him and nodded at his assertion. "My father is usually the most suspicious of me but he leaves the room at even the briefest inkling that the topic will come up so I knew that was the perfect course of action."

"He's still watching you after the count incident?" he asked, amazed that Lord Grantham had managed, or at least gave the appearance of being able, to forgive and forget his role in the injury while still punishing her. "That was three months ago."

"With helping Gwen find a job and the fact that he caught me reading John Stuart Mill, I think it's safe to say I'm still not living up to his idea of a model daughter," she said with a small crooked smile that was equal parts sympathy for her father and pride in herself.

"_The Subjection of Woman_ again?" he wondered, figuring that if so, this would be the fourth time she's read it since he initially suggested it.

"_Utilitarianism _actually," she corrected. "I'm afraid I don't know much on the topic so I found it a bit hard to follow but I wanted to explore more of the things he has done."

He hoped that discovery wouldn't be tied back to his influence. He had introduced her to Mill, this was true, but this particular selection was all her. Ever since he had first started recommending books, she had taken to finding things she could also pass on to him and had been so diligent that now his own reading list was a backlog of suggestions from her. She was responsible for introducing him to Mary Wollstonecraft for instance, a shameful oversight in his knowledge of women's rights literature that had escaped him since he had initially discovered the genre through works by liberal male writers.

If Lord Grantham was still holding any sort of grudge against him after the incident three months ago, he figured that any sense of him spreading his political and philosophical interests to his daughter would probably be enough to get fired or at the very least, would lead to him being watched with a close eye. He'd have to be careful about which books he chose to take from the library or the potential for another casual chat with his daughter ever again would be a lost hope.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it myself either," he said finally, remembering that today, as she had insisted, was about not allowing our concerns to ruin our relaxation, and expelled those fears from his mind. "Did you get anything good out of it?"

"A lot of it has faded from my mind unfortunately," she admitted with a sigh. "He does put forth the idea that intellectual pursuits bring about more pleasure than trivial ones which struck me as an interesting thought that I'm not sure I can agree with."

"I guess it would be hard to take the word of a man who is so intellectually capable that anything trivial would surely bore him," he said with laughter in his voice.

She furrowed her brows and gave her head a small shake like she had just had an epiphany.

"Exactly," she said stunned, as if she had been trying to formulate why the theory seemed suspect and he had managed to find the exact words. "It's a nice idea though."

"How did you even find it in the first place?" he asked, since he didn't lend it to her and he doubted she had just found it in town somewhere.

"Oh, it was in the library," she exclaimed with the same kind of disbelief that he face showed. "I think my grandfather was more diversely read than he got credit for being. You'd be surprised by some of the controversial things I've found there."

"Perhaps he just wanted to know his enemy?" he noted, finding it hard to believe that the man who married Lady Violet Crawley and sired the current Lord Grantham was somehow the more forward thinking patriarch of the family line.

"That's more likely, yes," she agreed with a grin, and he wondered if she was having recollections of him. "My father made the strangest remark when he saw me reading it."

"What did he say?" he asked, looking forward to realize that they were closing in on the edge of Downton Village. He had been so drawn in by the conversation that he hadn't even noticed how far they had walked.

"He said, 'Wouldn't you prefer to read something more suitable for a girl your age? _Wuthering Heights_, perhaps?' I told him that I had already read it and he asked why I didn't just reread then."

They both chuckled at Lord Grantham's stubbornness.

"He may not want you reading anything too philosophical but his recommendations come from a strange place," he noted, probing his mind for the details of Emily Bronte's novel. "If I recall correctly, isn't that novel mostly about how a homeless servant inherits an estate and tortures his descendents and the daughter of the women who loved him but had married a wealthier man?"

She started laughing so loud that a murder of crows flew out of a nearby tree, spooked by the loud noise.

"You're certainly not wrong," she said, unable to stop smiling. "I think his suggestion was mostly driven by the novel's reputation as a love story. It wouldn't surprise me if he hadn't actually read it himself. I'm sure he'd revise his opinion if he knew the love story is only a small portion of the book and is between a servant and a woman of a higher class who haunts him after she has died."

"He might be able to twist it into a horror story about how you should stay with your own sort," he pointed out with humor in his tone.

"That wouldn't be easy," she explained, the story clearer in her mind. "The novel seems to say that everything goes wrong because Catherine denies her feelings for Heathcliff. That's why she dies and he goes on tortured and torturing, to use your word. Their happy ending comes in the afterlife."

He smiled mirthlessly. If that wasn't a perfect display of the divisions in society and the way it restricts relationships, he wasn't sure what was. For a moment it made him hyper aware of where he was: enjoying a day out with someone who he considered a friend he held deep warmth for but one who he was not, by society's standards, allowed to feel as strongly towards as he did. And she was a Lady who had to pretend not to be in order to make the outing possible at all.

Perhaps, he should read it again himself.

"There's no way his lordship has read this book."

She placed a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh now that they were closer to businesses and the occasional person walking about.

"I don't think so. No."

"Well, what did you say to his suggestion?"

"I just smiled and then he gave me that look," she said, trying to convey the look with a frown and eyebrows drawn together.

"The look of parental disapproval?" he asked, not unfamiliar with the face himself. While he had been fortunate enough to be supported by his parents in his career endeavors and his political interests, when he was a little younger he had been on the receiving end of such a face any time he came home later than his mother had wanted him to be. If he came home a wee bit intoxicated, the look was usually accompanied with a sigh or a head shake that left him particularly shameful as he knew his granddad had a touch of a drinking problem.

"Yes, but he has a specific look tailored to me. It says," she paused to say in a deeper voice, "Sybil, you're heading down a path that leads to spinsterhood and I worry about you."

He smirked at her impression. He had to admit that while her voice still sounded mostly like her, the cadence and expression were spot-on.

"There are far worse things to be than unmarried, I think," she continued, glancing down at the ground for a second before looking forward with a wistful look. "My debut made that perfectly clear."

His brow creased in puzzlement. When he had driven her and her family back from the train station after her first proper season in London, she had seemed to be in good spirits about the experience. Of course, he hadn't been able to talk to her about it directly and there was no reason for Lord and Lady Grantham to have told him that the trip was anything short of pleasurable, he had watched her on the drive and she seemed to be chatting about it quite happily with her mother and Lady Edith in between long periods of staring out the window with a content appearance. While he had missed getting to chat with her on the occasional drives, he had been glad she had enjoyed herself.

"What happened?" he asked softly, afraid that he was asking her to relive dreadful memories.

"Don't misunderstand me. I had a lovely time overall," she quickly insisted, noticing his delicate manner of asking. "I got to see my friends for the first time in what felt like forever, there was dancing, it was all such a good time . . . but I will admit that the men I was introduced to were a bit disappointing. Some were fantastically funny and one or two were really incredibly kind but plenty were so dull that I would have rather been locked in my room with nothing than have to listen to them talk of nothing. And very few seemed keen on conversation about anything important with a woman."

"That's horrible," he said earnestly, secretly a bit satisfied that she hadn't encountered any men she might want to correspond with but focusing on the anger he felt that she had been treated so poorly. Anyone who couldn't appreciate her mind had no business talking to her in the first place.

"I remember thinking: I would rather be alone than married to a man like that."

_There are men who would like nothing more than to be with an intelligent woman like yourself_, he wanted to say but was unable to as she continued speaking before he could find the courage to do so.

"I'm sure my father doesn't see it that way. One time he saw me reading _The Awakening_ and I told him it was about the joys of family life. The touch of sarcasm was lost on him, thankfully. In hindsight, if he had known what the book was about he would have had a fit."

He had not read the book himself but he remembered hearing about it as it had been very notorious for being against what was expected of women and for some inappropriate sexual content (another book he wondered where she had managed to find it). He only knew that the woman in the book rejects high society and wants to leave her marriage and her children for another man but it ends badly.

"That book terrified me. After reading it I bombarded my mother and father with questions about the current legal rights of a married woman in England so I would know just what I should be prepared to fight for."

"Sorry I didn't initially recommend something on women's rights that was a bit more current." He could have given her Engels but given how much he emphasizes that the upper class woman is even more a slave of her husband than the proletariat who marries for love, he thought it might hit a bit too close to home and come off as insulting to his employer, which was not the impression he wanted to start off with in his first literature recommendation before she had gotten to understand him and his beliefs.

"It's alright. Were I a writer, I would like to compose an essay that would be useful to the modern woman on the subject." She perked up slightly as if she had an idea and glanced over at him with a smile. "Perhaps you could do it? You do have a politician's ways with words," she said, adding in a joking dramatic hand flourish.

"I like to think so," he said with a feigned smug attitude. "But I'm afraid I don't know as much about the present struggle for women's rights as you think I do," he admitted.

"Well, I could help you," she offered, delighted with the idea. "You should write something to call men to the cause while also informing women of what rights they have and what they can do to work for true equality."

He had to admit that while he wasn't sure how he would manage the time to research such an article, the idea of writing it, and of writing it with her, was intriguing. He found himself imagining a wonderful but completely improbable scenario in which he is in his cottage, sitting at his desk with a typewriter at the ready while she sits in a chair on the opposite side, paper and pen in hand as they shout ideas back and forth about what to write. She had already taken extensive notes and they are trying to find the best way to reach people through their words. He imagines composing something powerful that really affects the readers and when he is finished with it, they will share authorship of it. While John Stuart Mill credited his wife, Harriet, in helping with _The Subjection of Women_, this fact seems often forgotten. He would make sure people remembered who had done the work.

_By Tom Branson and Lady Sybil Crawley._

_Or Lady Sybil Crawley and Tom Branson._

_Or perhaps, by Tom and Sybil Branson._

Suddenly embarrassed at having allowed himself to overstep the line, even if it was only in his head, he looked over at her and found that she had disappeared from his side. Frantically, he whipped around, scanning the area for her but afraid to call her name in case anyone around heard him.

"Miss . . . ?"

After a few panicked seconds, he saw a large tree to his right and from the edge of it was the slightest peak of the brim of a navy blue hat and the side of a too long grey skirt. He let out a relieved breath and walked behind the tree.

"Miss Crawley, what -?"

She cut him off by raising a finger to her lips to silence him and then discreetly pointed said finger in the direction that he had come from.

Very slowly, he started to turn, glancing out of the side of his eye at what had caused her to run and hide: Dr. Clarkson, walking through the area where they had been passing just seconds earlier. If there was anyone outside of her family who would be able to recognize her, even in disguise as she was, it was sure to be him and he would definitely pass on what he had seen to Lord and Lady Grantham. Branson imagined that their transgression would mean she would be confined to the estate until a suitable husband was found to take her off the Lord and Lady's hands and he would be let go from his position without a reference, never to see her again.

He moved in closer to her, situating himself at an angle to the tree so she would be mostly blocked from any direction the doctor might look on the path he was walking. She was almost facing him, their shoulders just a fraction away from touching when she lowered her head a bit more to conceal herself behind his broad form, causing her to move in closer. He tensed up immediately, even more so than he had been at the initial fear of them being spotted. She was as near to him as she might be if they were dancing, closer even if he was thinking of the sorts of dances she participated in. Her sweet scent was inescapable and it took all his willpower not to enfold her in his arms as he watched her eyes, obscured by her hat, focus on his chest for a long while before they moved up to his face nervously.

"Is he gone?" she asked softly, and he realized that the reason for their tight proximity had slipped his mind.

He looked over his left shoulder as she attempted to look over his right and after a solid few seconds of combing the area for the village doctor, they came to the same conclusion.

"We're safe," he said, and watched sadly as she moved away from him and their seclusion and back into the open.

"Branson?"

At the sound of his name, they both froze and exchanged glances. He could hear her mumble "oh no" under her breath, clearly aware of who had called him but he had to admit that he really couldn't place the voice.

Before he had much time to think it over, Isobel Crawley had appeared before him and Lady Sybil had managed to, as surreptitiously as she could, slink behind him.

"Mrs. Crawley," he acknowledged with a nod. "It's good to see you."

"It must be truly rare to catch you on a day off," she said smiling in her usual content manner. She inclined her head towards his mysterious companion with a clear intent to introduce herself but no words managed to escape her tightly grinning mouth.

He knew the moment their charade was over when her brows started to crease and she took a long, curious look at the girl trying to hide beneath her hat and the man in front of her.

"Sybil?" Isobel Crawley addressed. Her voice was not substantially surprised or judgmental, just uncertain as if she wasn't sure she was identifying her correctly.

She tilted her head up at the sound of her name, the sound of defeat.

"Hello, Cousin Isobel," she said with a feeble smile that matched well with her partner's crestfallen expression that he was trying to mask behind his own weak grin.

Mrs. Crawley seemed to sense their discomfort as her brows softened and she tried to lighten the mood.

"So what are you two up to? Is there some kind of political meeting I haven't heard about?"

He could tell that she knew they were afraid to have been seen by her. He knew she knew even with her liberal, middle class ways, they were not supposed to be out together in a social manner and that his lack of uniform and Lady Sybil's disguise made it perfectly clear that was what they were doing. He knew she knew that even if they had been going to something political she had somehow managed to miss that it would probably not be approved of by Lord Grantham (of course, that would be unlikely to stop her).

But he also knew that Isobel Crawley was a very open-minded woman who rested on the same side of the political spectrum as them and didn't seem to care about classes and the rules of proper society any more than they did. He knew Lady Sybil admired her and Mrs. Crawley had always been very kind to him so it would not be unfounded to think that she would be willing to keep this encounter a secret from Lord and Lady Grantham.

He would not ask her to but he hoped he was right in his assessment of her. However, he knew the whole truth about Lady Sybil wanting to go to a pub would not sound as good as something else so he accepted that he would need to tell a small lie.

"We're actually collecting pamphlets," he blurted out, unable to form the rest of the thought. Pamphlets made the situation sound important and political but in his nervous state he hadn't thought to mention what they were about or why they were collecting them.

"For women's clubs," Lady Sybil finished quickly. "I want to join a club that is focused on equal rights and Branson is helping me find information on them. I think it would be a good use of my time."

"Yes, it certainly would be," Isobel agreed with a nod. "Especially with the war, it will be good to not lose sight of our other goals."

The dark cloud they had been trying to avoid passed over them as they glanced at each other. Neither of them had broken their rule but maybe it was folly to think that if they were in agreement to not talk about it, they would be able to avoid it from the rest of the world as well.

As if she was trying to diffuse both the situation's inherent awkwardness and the new layer of gloom she had unintentionally provided, Isobel let out a loud, high-pitched sigh.

"Well, I'd best leave you to it," she said jovially. "Good luck in your search."

"Thank you," Lady Sybil replied while Branson gave her a nod of affirmation, and, without hesitation, Cousin Isobel walked on as if nothing unusual had happened.

For a moment they both watched her retreating form, mildly dumbstruck at what had just happened but ultimately coming to the same conclusion.

"She isn't going to mention this to anyone," Branson stated, a note of relief in his otherwise strictly factual tone.

She looked over at him with a bit of wonder as if she was still processing that truth herself.

"It wasn't a mere oversight that she didn't ask more questions about what we were doing," she observed with an air of experience.

_She wanted us to have our privacy_, he thought. _Even though privacy is a luxury this world doesn't believe we should have and we were so close to having it all ripped away. Twice._

That thought was almost enough for him to tell her that they should forget about their day out and just go back to Downton. If she still wanted to spend any time at all with him, after he had ruined her day, they could do so behind the safely closed doors of the garage.

But then she glanced up at him, the fear of almost being revealed to her family simmering in her eyes. She looked like she was expecting him to tell her it was too dangerous to stay here and then all her planning and attempts at cheering would have been for nothing. She looked so sorry that she had gotten them into yet another mess that could have ended with him losing his job.

And he found that he couldn't tell her what she was preparing to hear.

"We'd best get on to the pub," he said, smiling in a manner that was only somewhat forced for her sake. "I'm sure we'll both feel better with a little drink."

She smiled in relief and nodded as they walked on, deciding to take a lesson from Cousin Isobel and pretend it never happened.


	3. The Pub

_Author's Note: Technically no research was done for this chapter aside from watching all the scenes of the show that take place in the Grantham Arms over and over and asking Tumblr for opinions on Tom's father (thanks Repmet and YankeeCountess!). Every city and town that I mention in this chapter is somewhere I have actually been even though it sounds like all I did was read the Wikipedia entry. The problem is that personally gathered information like, "There's a good Greek restaurant in Bray" isn't very useful when the year is 1914. Review this chapter and I will give you a totally useless fact about one of these places._

* * *

After the unexpected run-in with Isobel Crawley, the walk to the pub was fairly uneventful and short. The façade of the building was the same light brown brick as many of the surrounding buildings and truthfully would have been easy to miss had it not been for its swinging sign featuring the name of the pub and the arms in question.

Lady Sybil eyed the sign curiously as they approached.

"Those are the arms of my grandfather," she whispered to him matter-of-factly. "Do you think he might have established the pub? He had to have done something with it, right?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I've actually never been here before."

"An adventure for us both then," she said with a smile.

He grinned back at her as he held open the door so she could walk inside, following behind her. The interior was dimly lit and what he would call "homey," by which he may have meant, "smaller than he imagined but reasonable as a watering hole for a place the size of Downton." There were various tables scattered around with occasionally mismatched hard-backed chairs and benches, wooden wall panels above which hung paintings of the village, and a fireplace in the corner that was unlit as it was too warm to need the extra heat. Aside from an elderly man sitting at the bar smoking and chatting with the bartender and two middle aged men sharing a table near the dartboard on the wall, the place was empty. Thankfully, while it wasn't exactly high class and did have some roughness around the edges, it gave the appearance of being clean and welcoming.

She glanced around the interior, seemingly satisfied with what she saw, before looking back at him expectantly.

"Would you like to sit over there?" he asked, motioning to a table by the window, immediately regretting his choice as they could more easily be seen. After their experiences getting there, he felt like paranoia was reasonable but they had really already defied the odds of close encounters so what more could possibly happen?

"That would be fine," she said, walking over and sitting down in the chair facing the door before he could even think to pull her chair out for her. He sat down across from her and took off his hat, running his fingers through his pomade-free hair and smiling at her.

"So what do we do?" she asked quietly, looking at the other patrons out of the corner of her eye as if she was afraid they were judging her.

"Well, normally you would put in an order at the bar and then you either wait for it there or it is brought to you if there's a waiter but there doesn't appear to be one here," he said, scanning the area. Maybe they had one later but extra help probably wasn't needed in the middle of a weekday, in between meals. "Are you hungry?"

"No. I ate a fairly hearty lunch in preparation of our day out," she said.

"How about just a drink then?" he offered.

She eyed the lines of bottles behind the bar in trepidation.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to order," she admitted, trying to study the labels from far away. "I've mostly only had wine and it's always selected for me."

"I could pick something out for you. Do you trust me?" he asked with raised brows.

"As I said a few days ago, I should learn to listen to people who know better than I do in situations I'm unfamiliar with," she said with a grin.

He smiled back at her, tapping the table as he stood up. "I'll be right back then."

He went up to the bar in the back where the bartender was utilizing the relatively slow day to wipe down the shelves and rearrange the bottles. He looked over his shoulder at Branson and then threw the towel he was using to clean over his shoulder.

"What can I get you?" he asked.

"A cider for the lady," he asked, pointing to one of the bottles that was on display behind the counter, "And Jameson for me?"

The fact that he had just called her a lady, even in the broadest of uses, almost made him laugh out loud at the wonderful absurdity of the situation.

The bartender looked past him for a minute to the girl seated by the window before shooting him a smile that he was pretty familiar with. It was the same sort of expression he would give his friends when he met their girls or wives: a look of approval. For a moment he forgot that the beautiful girl by the window was not _his_ girl but his friend, his friend who society said was not even allowed to be his friend, and he felt himself grin sheepishly back, reddening a bit.

_And I haven't even had anything to drink yet_.

The drinks were placed on the bar and Branson thanked him, taking one in each hand over to the table. Her head was tilted upwards as she admired the framed paintings and photographs on the walls before he set the glasses down and she switched her gaze to him.

"Here you are, Miss Crawley," he said, sliding the taller glass towards her. She considered it with inquisitiveness but didn't ask what he had gotten her.

"Thank you, Mr. Branson," she replied, taking the glass in hand.

"Should we toast?" he asked, stopping her from taking a sip.

"Oh, of course," she said, lowering the glass slightly as she thought of something. "To getting away from it all," she declared in a cheerful tone, raising her glass up.

He mimicked her motion with a, "here, here" and watched as she took a tentative sip.

"Mmm," she murmured, unable to stop herself, "That's very good."

"I'm glad!" he exclaimed, taking a drink from his own glass.

"What is it?" she asked, following her initial cautious taste with a generous second.

"Cider," he told her. "It's a good choice for an inexperienced drinker."

"I should say so," she agreed, looking at his drink."What did you get? It looks almost like mine but you only got a fraction of the portion."

"It's whisky. Would you like to try it?"

She nodded in interest and he slid the glass towards her, watching intently as she pressed it to her lips. His composure as he watched her was broken when she made a strained guttural sound and scrunched up her face as she lowered the glass, her mouth in an exaggerated frown and her eyes clamped shut at the strong flavor. He tried so hard not to respond but he was soon unable to stop chuckling.

"I guess my inexperience is pretty clear now," she said in a tight voice, quickly trying to wash out the taste with another gulp of cider.

"It's all over your face I'm afraid," he joked with a wide smile that made her giggle herself.

When they eventually managed to control themselves, she passed him his glass and they both leaned back in their chairs to take in the calm atmosphere.

"I like this place," she said, passing her eyes around the room. "Although, it's a lot quieter than I thought it would be, I'll admit."

"Well, it is the middle of a work day. Most people probably won't start trickling in until after six at the least."

She sighed at herself. "Right, I wasn't thinking. This place must get quite busy to need a second level."

"That's where the rooms are, I'm pretty sure," he corrected, glancing towards the back to see if he could see any stairs or other employees that might indicate that the upper floor was in use. He could see that the bar seemed to have a whole other room on the ground floor but no guests were visible.

"What rooms?" she asked, taking another drink.

"I think the Grantham Arms also has accommodation. Someone might have mentioned it to me once," he said vaguely, a blurry memory of Anna telling him what she knew about the place coming to mind.

"So it's not just a pub but an inn?" she asked intrigued.

"Pretty much. In my experience rooms in pubs are usually cheaper than places that call themselves inns and are mostly for people passing through town or who were too drunk to make it home after a round downstairs."

He had gotten a room at a pub or two but it was a point of pride that it had always been for a reason intended to be considerate to someone else, often who he was visiting, and that he had never gotten a room as the result of excessive inebriation. Even in his slightly wilder, younger days he had far too much temperance for that. His rule of thumb was to never drink so much he could not find his way safely home.

"What else do you think goes on up there?" she asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

The truth was, probably not much in a little village like Downton but he couldn't resist indulging her.

"Secret meetings?" he offered, raising an eyebrow.

"A lover's tryst, perhaps?" she added, equally amused. "Think of the scandal that could be going on above us!"

"Or right here," he said, speaking long before his mind could stop him. He had meant to imply that neither of them knew the true purpose of the men at the table or the man at the bar; any number of things could be going on with them. Of course, his timing made it seem like he was calling their presence there a scandal (which it truthfully could be) or, even worse, that he was implying that a lover's tryst was present right here.

Lady Sybil had blushed and looked away from him towards her half full glass and he wondered how she had interpreted his comment. Maybe she was just shy at the idea that they were sitting somewhere that disgraceful things could happen but he thought that seemed too abstract and minor for a strong girl like her and that it was more likely the two choices he had predicted. Neither option was agreeable but he honestly hoped that she was more saddened by the fact that the inappropriateness of their outing had been brought to her attention again than uncomfortable by incorrect implications.

Even as he did feel for her, he would never want just a tryst.

He tried to numb his line of thought by closing his eyes tightly and taking another swig of whisky.

"Well," she started, finally looking back up to let his remark pass by, "I feel like we talked about me the entire walk here and that's unfair. How are things with you? How's your family? You barely even mention them."

Barely mention them was a bit of a kind understatement on her part. He could only remember the topic of his family in Ireland coming up a few times and often in a very indistinct way. He didn't really think of it as something to talk about with her since she would have little to contribute and he was grateful just to be able to talk to her at all without risking alienating her by discussing personal things he shouldn't be discussing with the daughter of his employer.

He thought about the last letter he had received from his mother and tried to find the topic that would be most appealing to share.

"The big news in the last letter I received was that my sister, Catherine, just gave birth to her second child," he said, hopeful that would be a safe thing to mention.

"And she is your older sister, right?" she asked for clarification. "I remember you mentioning her."

"Yes, she is," he agreed in surprise. He couldn't even remember mentioning much more to her than the fact that he had sisters so it was stunning that she had managed to stow away that knowledge.

"And you have an older brother named Kieran who lives in Liverpool and a younger sister named Winifred but you call her something else. . ."

"Una," he said, pleased and a bit humbled that she had recalled so much.

"Yes," she said, taking a drink.

"She's my mother's favorite. The baby of the family," he said fondly. "But I guess you might know something about that."

"Well, I think it's clear to everyone that my father prefers Mary but I did always think that my mother might secretly favor me," she added with a slight grin of satisfaction before she furrowed her brow and shook her head gently. "Poor Edith."

He gave her a similarly sympathetic look for the plight of her sister. "In truth, I always felt like I was filling the role of the middle child myself since my older brother and sister are so close in age," he said taking a drink as she glanced downward, seemingly a bit ashamed for not making the connection before she spoke.

To try to ease the tension, he figured he would explain and instead let loose a stream of thoughts. "With Kieran and Catherine being less than a year apart and feeling like they always know what's best, they both fought for the coveted role of oldest sibling, you know, trying to set an example for me and Una to live by. We both related slightly better to Kieran though. My grandfather would say it's because we have the 'Branson family fire' in our blood, a trait of passion and varying degrees of recklessness to pursue it. Catherine's more like a stricter version of our mother: a warm person ultimately but with a formidable calm strength that seems to let nothing waver it. She can be terrifying if she doesn't like you. And I guess our personalities have to say something about our choices because while Catherine built her safe, secure walls in Dublin with her stable job and family, Kieran ran off to Liverpool and I ran off to Yorkshire. Una hasn't gone anywhere yet but she will. She's stayed in school longer than the rest of us and I know she's studying hard for her inevitable run off to some decent career. She'll be the first really formally educated person in the family and although I may come from farmers and factory workers, my father won't let me forget that I come from a line of well-read and intelligent people who were just ill-financed to choose any other path."

As he spoke, he noticed her leaning towards him, nodding as he talked. He hoped he wasn't boring her and trapping her into having to pretend to be following along.

"I have to admit that I'm surprised you could remember so much about my siblings. I can't even remember exactly when we talked much about them," he confessed, trying to get them back on track, "Aside from just now with my runaway mouth."

She smiled. "I have a pretty good memory. And I'm used to having to remember names of people I've never met so that I don't embarrass myself in future conversations. It's one of the first lessons a lady is given. So, Catherine had another child?" she said, quickly changing the subject away from herself. "A little boy or a little girl?"

"A healthy girl named Aisling. She was ecstatic. My mother had said in her letter that she was happy to have one of each."

"The best course, I'd say," she agreed. "Were there any stories about her?"

"Well, my mother had written that when they had baptized her she cried the whole time, loud wails of terror when they poured the holy water. My mother had said that she had always had some trouble when they would try to bathe her but for whatever reason this was just too much for her. So afterwards they took the train down near where we used to live by the sea and put my niece directly in the water for the first time with everyone around to show her it's not scary."

"Did that work?" she asked animatedly.

"Apparently, she loved it. Kicked and splashed without a care in the world! There's no fathoming the mind of a baby."

She laughed heartily as she lifted her glass to her mouth, drinking the remaining few drops.

"Would you like me to get you another?" he offered, a bit surprised by how fast she had put away the cider.

"Yes, thank you!" she said cheerily, her eyes bright with the drink.

He smirked at her heightened spirits and went up to the bar again.

"Another cider?" the bartender asked knowingly, glancing over at Lady Sybil. Clearly there wasn't much entertainment to be had from the other patrons.

He gave his assent and then glimpsed over at the man sitting to the right and gave him a friendly nod. The man stared back at him grumpily and took a swig from his glass, clearly not drinking for enjoyment.

Mercifully, her drink was ready quickly and he was able to avoid the glare of the man as he returned to his table.

"I bet you're a good uncle," she said grinning, as he placed the new glass in front of her.

"I would spoil those kids rotten if I could!" he said enthusiastically, sitting back down across from her and watching her take her first drink.

"Will you get to meet her any time soon?" she asked, momentarily catching him off guard as she ran her tongue over her upper lip to catch any liquid clinging to her mouth.

"I'm . . . not so sure," he answered slowly. "It would require a lot of time off and there's the cost to consider."

"Do you miss Ireland?" she asked gently, clearly feeling very sorry for him. Although he had gotten accustomed to spending time away from home in the near year and a half that he had been working at Downton, it was true that he really hadn't prepared himself for how many big events he would end up missing in the lives of his family and friends. He had already missed a wedding and a birth, and unfortunately, the progression of time was not going to stop there.

"Sometimes," he said, deciding that was the safe and honest answer. "It's hard not to feel homesick when I get a letter. It really is more practical for me to work in England," _financially speaking_, he added mentally. "But it can be hard missing so much of their lives. I only get little snippets and stories, most often from my mother because everyone else is too busy to write."

"I can't know what it's like to be separated from everyone close to you like that," she said softly. "But I can understand in a way. It can be hard to maintain friendships with people living as isolated as my family does. Of course, we have guests but they are often friends of my parents and most of them have sons who I was friendly with once as children but who now have little interest in talking to me. My own friends I sometimes only get to see during the season and as time goes on I find myself drifting further and further from most of them because of dwindling shared interests or fewer letters written between us or what have you."

He thought about telling her that the same thing had happened to him when he was around her age but he knew the situations were not the same. With his own emerging adulthood had come the revelation that he should cut people from his life who did not make good company. He had lost some friends, but only because he had chosen to. Everyone else he had stuck by and he had never had to worry about not seeing them enough or feeling lonely as she did since they all lived so close to each other.

He thought about telling her that he was always there for her if she needed someone to talk to but she had interjected with another question to bring the conversation back to him.

"What's Dublin like?" she wondered, with an engrossed look.

"Dublin is a city like any in England really," he said with an ambivalent wave of his hand. "It's much smaller than London. It's more the size of York but with far more people in it. It's, um, got mostly Georgian buildings but with a little bit of the medieval look still lingering around in the churches and castle. It's by the sea with the River Liffey running through it. Busy, but not . . . overly so." He shrugged. "I don't know what else you want me to say about it."

"Where does your family live there?" she asked, taking a drink.

"My mother, father, and Una live in a flat on the Northside, that is, north of the Liffey, and Catherine and her husband Daniel live a bit west of them. They see each other quite a bit from what I hear as Catherine gets a lot of help with her kids."

She smiled as if the idea really pleased her and it occurred to him that she had probably spent most of her childhood with a nanny and then a governess instead of being passed around among relatives throughout the day.

_Speaking of loneliness_, he thought, hoping that her childhood had been a good one in spite of the tale his mind was spinning.

"Has your family always lived in Dublin?"

"No, actually I was born in Bray which is south of Dublin right over the border in County Wicklow. My father's family has a sheep farm in Galway out in the west but he moved to Dublin for work and met my mother there. My mother is originally from Bray and they ended up moving out there after Kieran was born with my father traveling north for work. When I was nine my parents moved us to Dublin because my father found a better job that was even further from where we were. Moving to the city made it easier for my mother to pick up sewing jobs, she's a very good seamstress, and I also think it might have been cheaper for us to move into a smaller place in the city than it was to live away from it and have my father pay to travel."

"What does he do?"

"Not much anymore," he found himself saying before he could stop himself. He had been trying to hide the issue for so long that he felt a bit of relief at saying it.

Lady Sybil gazed at him in confusion.

"He's not well," he clarified, looking down at his nearly empty glass for a second before looking back at her compassionate expression.

"I'm sorry. May I ask why?" she wondered gently.

"He's been having heart problems. They used to be minor, sporadic things but now he spends a lot of time in bed," he explained, looking away from her mournful face. "My mother didn't say so explicitly but it's the end."

"Oh," she murmured. She was silent for a minute as she took another drink and gathered her words. "Well, you must go back there," she said assertively.

He sighed softly.

"I would love to, but . . ."

"No, you must," she interrupted with more force. "I will get Papa to give you the time off that you need. And as for the cost, I could help . . ."

"No," he stopped her, shaking his head. "It's too much."

"Of course it isn't," she said dismissively. "If you won't accept it directly from me, I can find some way you feel more comfortable with but either way you have to go home. You need to see your father and meet Aisling and give your mother a hug for me and I won't take no for an answer!"

He smiled somberly at her, in awe again at what a caring and generous person she was. He was sure that no matter how much time he spent in her presence, he would always find her charitable nature inspiring and unmatched.

"Well, I guess I have nothing more to say then," he told her, knowing there was no way he could thank her properly.

She gave him a sorry smile, which brought emphasis to the blush on her cheeks that he could not be sure of the origin: the alcohol or his words. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her hand that had been resting on the table move towards where his own was lying on the other side and his heart leapt into his throat. He couldn't resist looking down at her hand making its slow journey before looking up into her eyes which were fixated on him and seemed to be questioning every movement. Then suddenly, she looked down and her hand retreated back to its original position as if she had thought better of what she was about to do and he tried not to let out a disappointed sigh.

When he had taken her hand at the garden party it had been in excitement, in triumph, and had not gone unnoticed by those who might question it. Here they were more secluded, visually less separated by class but it would be a gesture of comfort, of empathy. He didn't know whether she had stopped because she had learned her lesson about appropriate behavior last time or if it was because she didn't want to mar the original memory with this one. He hoped it was the latter but he suspected the former. To touch in such a way was a line she was wary to cross again after all they have had to endure today.

"All this talk about Dublin reminded me of something," he said finally, desperate to resurrect their conversation for her sake. "I actually just got a book I think you might enjoy if you're interested. It's a book of short stories about the lives of various people living there. It's very good."

"I would love to read it," she said earnestly. "I've actually been looking for something . . ."

She was cut off when she heard a loud sob that came on so quickly that she jumped in her seat in surprise. Similarly startled, he looked in the direction of the noise and saw the man who had been sitting at the bar shaking violently.

"I lost a boy in the Boer War!" he practically shouted in the direction of the bartender who appeared to only be half listening, the man's voice unsteady from a combination of drink and tears. "How many more? How many more!?"

His voice echoed in the pub as Branson looked over at the two younger men in the corner who had also stopped talking at the man's outburst and were watching him with detached absorption.

"Okay, Mr. Carling. I think it's time you go home," the bartender said with a touch of bitterness, clapping him on the shoulder in an attempt at being comforting. "Or do you need a lie down first?"

The man cried into his hands without giving him an answer as the bartender left his place behind the bar to walk over to the man and lead him into the back. Although they could not see them anymore he was surely being taken to where a staircase to the rooms was so he could calm down, sober up, or, at the very least, no longer disturb the few patrons the Grantham Arms had.

When they had disappeared, Branson looked back over at Lady Sybil whose face had dropped into the same one she had worn when they were talking about his father.

"That poor man," she said sadly. He nodded in agreement and they sat in silence for a long minute.

"We really cannot escape it, can we?" she asked finally.

He looked at her apologetically.

"I'm afraid not."

He had tried so hard to make her plan work and it seemed like no matter what they did if they managed to escape thoughts of the war, they were reminded of their class difference and if they managed to put that societal rule behind them they were being reminded of the war. And it was only likely to get worse.

And maybe he was just a stubborn, relentless fool but he still wasn't ready to admit defeat.

"But that doesn't mean we can't try."

She furrowed her brows dubiously as he looked over his shoulder at the wall next to the two men sitting.

"Have you ever played darts, Miss Crawley?" he asked, angling his head towards the dartboard hanging behind them.

"No," she answered with slight trepidation. "Have you?"

"Only very badly," he admitted casually. "Want to have a go?"

She looked from him to the dartboard and back, chuckling under her breath as if she couldn't believe his suggestion but he took her smile as a yes.

He grinned at her and left the table to approach the bartender who had since returned after putting the inebriated man in a room upstairs.

"Do you have the darts for that board?" he asked, motioning to the wall.

The bartender crouched down to look under the bar and pulled out a small wooden box.

"Be careful," he warned, handing Branson the box. He gave a nod of acknowledgment and walked over to Lady Sybil, who had finished her cider and gotten up from her seat to stand a few feet away from the board.

"So how do you play?" she asked, studying the numbers written along the outside.

"I don't really know the rules," he said, opening the box to reveal a few sets of darts with different colored stripes on the tails. "I just know you have to try to get it as close to the center as possible." He lifted the box up towards her invitingly. "Want to try?"

She glanced down at the darts and pulled out one with a white stripe at the end. Facing the wall and bringing her hand up next to her face, she tried to focus in on the center but wasn't really sure how to throw it properly and ended up launching the dart into the wall above the heads of the men sitting to the left of the board. Her hands flew to her face in shock.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" she said quickly, in a distinctly Yorkshire accent. For a second he was startled at the voice that had come out of her before he realized that she was trying to blend in. Her usual upper class tone would have been an immediate curiosity to the men who had no idea a Lady was in their midst. Her mind never censed to impress him.

"No harm done," assured one of the men as he pulled the dart out of the wall and handed it back to her. She took the dart sheepishly with a murmured, "thank you."

"Perhaps not quite so forcefully," Branson suggested as she got back into position, flushed with embarrassment.

She threw the dart again, gentler this time and it made it to the board but only onto one of the farther out rings.

"Try again," he told her, handing her another.

This one struck a bit closer to the center but had landed in a big hole and fell off. The board had clearly been used and abused in its day. She picked the dart off the floor and stood still, concentrating very hard for a minute before throwing it again. It found purchase just inside the metal ring that separated the middle circle.

"I got it!" she shouted excitedly. The men at the table gave her a light clap of acknowledgement. "That's not bad for my first round," she said softly to Branson in her natural voice.

"Not bad at all," he agreed admiringly. "And I think it calls for another round of drinks?"

She beamed at him in agreement.


	4. The Abbey

_Author's Note: I hope all who reviewed the last chapter enjoyed my totally useless facts! Here is the last chapter. Sorry it's so short but I hope it is not unsatisfying._

* * *

A few more ciders in and luncheon being just a fleeting memory, Lady Sybil Crawley was a bit intoxicated. It wasn't exactly a severe problem as far as Branson could see as she was relatively stable on her feet and nothing about her demeanor was altered. She was talking louder and faster than usual and perhaps with less focus but otherwise her condition was relatively minor. Considering how much she had drank it was rather impressive. It hadn't even occurred to him that it might cause a problem until she suddenly gasped and asked him what time it was and they realized they had stayed far longer than they had intended to with no real time to reach full sobriety before heading back. In a bit of a rush to get started walking home, Lady Sybil retreated to freshen up while Branson covered their tab and in minutes they were out the door.

They walked briskly and quietly through the village itself with their heads tilted downwards as a safety precaution until they had gotten away from all the buildings and the possibility of encountering anyone.

"Thank you so much for today," she said in a dreamy, sing-song manner when they were finally surely alone. She looked up at him fondly and he smiled at her alcohol-induced tone and her cheeks flushed from drink.

"Thank you for proposing the idea in the first place," he said, returning the appreciation.

She grinned wider, waving her hand away as if to say it was nothing. They walked along for a few seconds of silence while he watched her face under the shade of her hat and saw that her smile did not dwindle until she spoke again.

"I have _never_ had that much to drink in . . ." she was cut off abruptly as her shoe caught under a protruding tree root and she started to fall forward. Branson rushed to her side and caught her around the waist, preventing her inevitable collision with the ground. He held her for a minute as she seemed to slowly come to the realization of what had happened and looked from the grass she had almost landed in to his arms around her to his concerned expression.

The only time he had ever been as physically close to her as now had been when he carried her, unconscious and limp, away from the riot that had broken out at the count. All he could think about then was how terrified he was that she had been injured. While he held her he prayed over and over that she would be okay and mentally apologized to her for not protecting her better. He begged and bargained for her sake and could barely spare a thought to the fact that the girl who had become the subject of most of his thoughts as of late was in his arms.

Today he had no such qualms. The moment they had earlier by the tree had only been a mere suggestion of what he now felt with her pressed against him. He was sweltering from her body heat, the feel of her elevated pulse that mirrored his, and the way he was engulfed in her floral scent and the faintly fruity alcohol on her warm breath that she released through parted lips.

"I guess this is the closest we'll come to dancing tonight," she said softly after a time, finally managing to close her mouth and punctuate her joke with an upward turn of her lips.

He chuckled, the tension he felt at her proximity lessened, and he loosened his hold on her, allowing one arm to fall away as the other slid around her back to continue to provide support.

"Think you can walk without falling?" he asked good-naturedly.

"I'm not sure I can say yes yet," she admitted with a touch of shame. "I wouldn't mind a little extra assistance."

He nodded and kept his arm around her as they continued walking.

"They might not even cancel the Servant's Ball next year," she said, continuing off her previous comment. "The war could be over quickly. Or the Ball could go on because of Papa's insistence on upholding tradition."

"It's certainly possible," he agreed. "If there is a Ball, will you save a space for me on your dance card?"

She gave a little laugh. "You don't even have to ask."

Touched by her remark, he was about to ask her what kind of dance she would prefer when she let out an exasperated, "Oh, no!"

"What is it?"

"We forgot to pay for our drinks!" she practically shouted, stopping them in their tracks. Aware of her volume, she raised a hand to her mouth as if she could suppress what she had already said and he tried not to laugh and humiliate her further.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner but I actually did when you had stepped away," he assured her, putting a bit of pressure on her back to remind her to keep walking as they were still going to be arriving at the Abbey after when they had intended to.

She started to walk again but looked at him with a miffed expression.

"Well, you shouldn't have," she declared as if it was obvious. "I should have at least paid for what I drank. For all the trouble I put you through I should have bought your drinks as well," she reasoned.

"It isn't any trouble," he insisted but he knew deep down he was lying for her sake. While having his living quarters and meals provided for did make for a sizeable salary, he sent a fair portion of his income to his family, only keeping what he absolutely needed to pay for extraneous items and a small percentage for personal savings. With the amount of alcohol they had both consumed, he figured he would have to make some sacrifices in terms of what he buys for a little while but, oh, it was worth it.

However, she did not believe him for a minute.

"Of course it is! You need to save your money so you can go see your father," she reminded him, getting more and more furious at his offhand attitude. "I'll pay you back," she said firmly.

"You don't have to. It can be an exchange for your planning this outing," he offered. A more rational part of his brain was telling him to stop fighting her on the issue. His romanticizing the outing by picking up the cost as if it were no matter who paid was only detrimental to him and was not fooling her when she knew how desperately he needed to hold onto his money.

She looked away from him dejectedly and sighed.

"As soon as I get some more money, I will pay you back," she said assertively and he tried to hide his smile at the irony of both her insistence on the fact that she should have paid and her status in society. She couldn't have paid even though she wanted to. It didn't surprise him that she didn't have enough on her as she was so used to being with a chaperone that would cover the cost. Now that he thought about it, he had never seen her exchange money for anything she acquired, probably because the shops she went to had accounts set up with Lord Grantham. She was wealthy but without anything tangible in her purse.

"Okay, Miss Crawley," he said merrily, not concerned if she ever made good on her promise but knowing she would out of shear stubbornness if she managed to remember in her tipsy mind.

As they got closer and closer to Downton Abbey, he wondered for the first time what her arrangement for getting back inside was.

"Let's go to the back of the garage," she said, as if she was reading his thoughts and he turned with her, hand still against her back even though she appeared to be walking perfectly fine.

"You have a plan for making it back in, I hope?" he asked, to be sure.

"I just thought of one," she assured him although he was glad he hadn't asked earlier if she had only just come up with the idea.

When they got to the back of the garage, where they had started their journey, he removed his hand from her back as she started fiddling with the buttons on one of her gloves. For a second he thought it might just be the strange behavior of someone who had been drinking but he soon realized she was trying to remove it; however, with her other hand still gloved she wasn't having any success.

"Could you help me with this?" she asked, presenting her wrist to him.

Carefully he unbuttoned the glove for her, wondering if Gwen had been the one to put them on her in the first place. She clearly couldn't have done it alone and he thought about joking that he was her new ladies maid but was a bit distracted by trying to do such delicate work with his large hands.

When he had finished, she pulled the glove off and went to work on the other one, passing them both to one hand and removing her matching hat.

"If you could keep these safe for me, I'll come back to get them later," she said, holding out the hat and gloves to him. He took them from her and smiled. She had a reason to come visit him again. Maybe she had created a reason to come visit him again.

"And when you do I can give you those pamphlets I have about women's clubs in the area," he added.

"That would be wonderful!" she exclaimed, taking off her jacket and folding it so that it draped over her arm.

"So what's your plan?" he asked, unable to resist. She had clearly taken off the hat and gloves to conceal the fact that she had gone out but the jacket seemed to be another matter.

"I'm going to go through the service entrance," she explained. "No one should be standing around there at this time and if they are I'll just wait until they leave. Then I'm going to walk as quickly as I can to the service stairs which I can take all the way to the floor my bedroom is on and if I encounter anyone, I'll just tell them I was retrieving this," she held up her jacket, "which Anna had been repairing for me."

"And if Anna is the one to stop you?"

"There's a little tear right here," she said, pointing to a hole near the hem, "I'll ask her to fix it and Gwen will get her things back in better condition than she lent them out."

"You are something," he said with a sigh, unable to mitigate his great affection for her.

She glanced downward, her cheeks turning even redder than they already were from the ciders, and then looked back to him with a little smile.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, Branson," she said, with what seemed like exaggerated propriety but was really just stark in contrast to how familiar they had been acting all day.

The change in title was not lost on him. They had returned to reality and the reality of the situation was that this would not be able to happen again. They had been lucky, unfathomably lucky, but now he knew that they would need to return to the way things were before. Even though he knew he wouldn't be one forever, for now he was still a chauffeur and she was a Lady.

And even so, things would not be exactly as they were. With her little gesture with her hat and gloves he knew that he wasn't the only one thinking about how much closer he felt to her now. He wasn't the only one who valued their little talks. Even before today, he couldn't have been the only one benefitting from the pleasure of her company. She had been the one to come to him when she needed someone, thereby breaking a social barrier they hadn't yet breeched.

They wouldn't make it to the pub again but she would return to the garage.

"And you as well, milady," he responded with a jovial nod.

In a moment her smile fell away and she fixed her blue eyes on him with such honestly that he was almost startled.

"Thank you," she said confidently, and her statement was imbrued with all the weight of her gratitude for him joining her on her adventure when she had steered him so wrong before, his reluctance to let anything bring down their day no matter what adversity they faced, and the companionship he always freely offered her from the moment he had started working for her father.

And then, as he watched her walk away from him to return to her life of luxury and privilege, a thought that had been simmering in the back of his head made itself painfully, obviously known: that he would never be happy with anyone else as long as Lady Sybil walks the earth and when the time was right he would ask her to marry him.

But for now, he would treasure their short-lived diversions.


End file.
